


my heart goes bum (bum, bum, bum, bum)

by fleuricity



Category: Anne of Green Gables (TV 1985) & Related Fandoms, Anne of Green Gables - L. M. Montgomery, Anne with an E (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, I swear it'll get better, Mental Health Issues, Reconciliation, Recovery, a whole lot of slowburn but that's my kink soooo, angstttt, anne is in her head, but what's new, eventually, gil just wants to help, srryy, the way these kiddos hurt me, what even are these tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:28:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24814576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleuricity/pseuds/fleuricity
Summary: Anne Shirley has trouble navigating her own thoughts most days, so she's hesitant at best about sharing them with somebody else. Nevertheless, she's promised herself (and Cole) to show up to at least one single group therapy session held at the office building near her work.However, when a certain dark-haired, hazel-eyed med student from her past shows up to a meeting unannounced, Anne refuses to break.She knows from experience; it takes a long time to pick up the pieces he leaves behind.
Relationships: Gilbert Blythe & Anne Shirley, Gilbert Blythe/Anne Shirley
Comments: 15
Kudos: 44





	1. you admit that you're lonely, you're as cold as a statue

**Author's Note:**

> I'm backkkkk!
> 
> It's been a while, as I had absolutely no inspiration and quarantine was NOT a good motivator, but I started this new one and I'm actually excited about it, so let's see how it goes, yea? I've been thinking about doing something like this for a while now, and it may not be for everyone, but the subject is very close to my heart, and I wanted to tell a story that was a little more personal. Just a disclaimer, I will be talking about mental illness in this story, but I just want to remind everyone that it is most definitely NOT a singular struggle. 
> 
> Mental illness looks different on everybody and in my personal opinion, it's very important to stay clear of labels, as they are restrictive and stifling and very detrimental for ANYONE's mental health. The way I describe it here is based upon a lot of my own struggles and experiences, but that is just one story. Before I begin, I just want to remind everyone to PLEASE be kind to themselves and others, and to remember that pain is only temporary, and that we need to take care of ourselves. Okay, that's enough out of me.
> 
> Enjoy!

“Um… I’m not really sure what to say,” is what tumbles out when it’s finally her turn to speak, her hands toying restlessly with the purple band around her wrist. She’s looking down at her lap as she says it, but her efforts are futile, as she can practically feel eyes burning holes into the top of her lowered head. When she finally gathers the will (not courage, that she has plenty of) to look up, it’s to thirteen unblinking stares, and she trembles with the effort to bite back a smirk. She’s always found her own misfortune tragically amusing.

  
  


The woman to her right (Susan, according to her nametag) smiles and nods her head encouragingly, with an overwhelming enthusiasm that has Anne inwardly grimacing.

  
  


“Take all the time you need, sweetheart. We’re here to listen.”

  
  


Anne nods to herself, glancing around the room absently, her gaze landing on the half empty box of powdered donuts they’d left sitting on the foldout table in the corner of the room. These sessions always start with a free for all. She’s always pointedly fifteen minutes late.

  
  


Someone subtly clears their throat and she realizes belatedly that she’d spaced. She snaps the purple band twice, then looks up with a sharp inhale.

  
  


“Hi, my name is Anne.” 

  
  


A low rumble of ‘Hi Anne’s' reverberates around the room as she pauses.

  
  


She steels herself, then resumes, looking resolutely over the head of whoever it is that’s sitting directly in front of her, at the particularly horrid wallpaper adorning the wall.

  
  


“I guess I’m here because I need help. I can’t- I don’t really have a lot of people, and the ones I do sent me here, so. It’s um... ” she takes a deep breath, “It’s been hard, and I can’t-” her voice breaks and she swallows, attempting to rid herself of the lump that’s built there, “I can’t live with it anymore. I thought I could, but I can’t.”

  
  


She looks down and breathes in for four, out for six. She’s focusing on her third inhale when she feels a tentative hand on her shoulder, the contact triggering an involuntary flinch. The woman beside her ( _Susan_ , her brain reminds her) hastens to remove her hand, but that stubborn, kind smile remains.

  
  


“Anne, this is a safe space. We’re not here to… to pressure you, in any way.” She sits back slightly, recrosses her legs. “I’ve noticed this is the first time you’ve spoken, despite having been attending these meetings for… over two weeks now, is it? What prompted this sudden openness?”

  
  


Anne promptly shuts her mouth and balls her fists, nails digging into the soft skin of her palms. She unclenches them in a slow practiced manner, little by little, until she can’t feel the sting anymore, until her arms are trembling with exertion. Inwardly, she seethes. The gall of this woman, to demand an explanation, to act as if it’s _owed_ , as if Anne is somehow in her _debt--_ It’s rude, it’s thoughtless, and it makes her terribly uncomfortable. 

  
  


And that’s the kicker isn’t it? She’s known it about herself since she’d learned to reflect on conscious thought. It’s that feeling above all, that relentless _need_ to crawl out of her own skin, to escape, to disappear. Above it all, it’s that constant state of discomfort- that’s what haunts her ad nauseum.

  
  


She pulls herself out of her reverie the way she’d trained herself how, by focusing on something tangible. _Something_ , in this case, happens to be one of the most beat up, worn out pairs of All Stars she’s seen in her life, and she’s seen it all. She trains her eyes on what appears to be a slightly smudged smiley face, the approximate size of a fingernail, and wills herself to speak.

  
  


“I- well I don’t really know… I guess I just felt that… you know, maybe if... ” is what she manages to get out, before trailing off absently, as her sudden interest in the old pair of shoes abruptly spikes. She watches the foot curiously, a subtle unease settling in the pit of her stomach as it taps out a familiar rhythm. Three seconds of rather awkward silence later, her gaze is still lowered, her face a ghostly white. Then, hesitantly, almost dreadfully, her eyes begin to crawl up lean, denim-clad legs, then travel over broad, muscled shoulders, linger on an unmistakable, remarkable chin, and finally, _finally_ reach that familiar boundless hazel. 

  
  


At a loss, Anne sits up abruptly in her chair, and if she didn’t already have the attention of the room, she certainly does now. Her eyes are still locked with his however, so she pays no mind to the fact that she’s making a spectacle of herself. Who are they to judge anyway; they ended up here, same as she did. 

She doesn’t know how she’d missed him, but she had. It shouldn’t be much of a surprise, with the way she spends most of her time walking around with her eyes glazed nowadays, but she still somehow manages to be taken aback by her own carelessness. Was this his first meeting? Or had he been here all along? Most importantly: _how much had he heard?_

  
  


Not giving herself time to think, she forcefully tears her gaze away, turning instead to smile painfully at the woman beside her (Susan, Susan, _Susan_ ).

  
  


“You know, I- I’m not really ready yet… maybe someone else can go, may I- May I be excused for a moment?” But she’s already up and stumbling out of the room before she can get a coherent response.

  
  


She makes her way down the unfamiliar hallway with a buzzing in her ears, hastening to locate a bathroom. She finds one at the end of the long corridor, throwing the door open with a slam and a small sigh of relief. Bracing herself on one of the sinks (not before wiping it down thoroughly and counting backwards from ten), she turns on the cold water, splashing herself thrice and inhaling sharply at the frigid contact.

  
  


When she’s finished, she wipes at her eyes with the heels of her palms, then blinks up at her reflection.

  
  


_No, this is fine,_ she decides. _There’s no cause for panic, so what if he’s here?_ She breathes out a shaky laugh at her own naiveté, her head beginning to throb. 

  
  


_He shouldn’t be here, he’ll ruin everything,_ hisses a voice in the back of her mind, and she’s a little stunned at it’s vehemence. 

  
  


Shaking her head to herself resolutely, her own ashen reflection staring back at her, Anne does what she does best: she pivots.

  
  


_Make him leave, that’s the plan. Stick to the plan. Make him leave._

  
  


The silent mantra bolstering her confidence, she grabs four paper towels, rips them in half twice, throws them away, then makes her way back to the main room.

  
  


She’s marginally proud at the ease and nonchalance with which she endures the rest of the meeting. She sits with her legs crossed elegantly, the picture of poise as she looks around the room seemingly unperturbed. In fact, the only things that may serve to give away her distress are the bleeding inside of her cheek and the glances she can’t seem to keep herself from sparing him every couple of seconds. He doesn’t appear to mind, however, as his eyes seem to be on her every time she looks his way anyway.

  
  


It’s a struggle not to sigh in relief when Susan finally claps her hands together and wishes them a good day, but if Anne’s cultivated one thing, it’s restraint. 

  
  


She rises from her chair slowly, shouldering her bag and brushing a strand of hair behind her ear nervously. _Stick to the plan._

  
  


Nodding to herself, she looks up, steeled for battle, but comes up empty. She could’ve sworn he was just-- where did he go? _Find him. Stick to the plan._

  
  


She whirls around, her panicked eyes scanning the room for a familiar head of dark curls, her breath coming shorter with each passing second. She’s just about to give up, go home, when she freezes, catching sight of an all too familiar lean figure making his way towards her through the lingering crowd, his strides determined.

  
  


_Fuck the plan. Run._

  
  


She makes a beeline for the exit, almost tripping over herself to get the door open. Bounding down the hallway, she almost breaks the damned call button, considering the force with which she slams it, tapping her foot impatiently as she waits for the elevator. She sighs in relief when the doors slide open, jumping in and tapping ‘door close’ as if her life depended on it.

  
  


In hindsight, it’s painfully ironic how close she actually got. She’s practically one foot out the door when she hears him scream out, the desperate strain to his voice and the way it broke miserably when he'd called her name rooting her to the spot. Turning around wearily, she has the distant thought that he must’ve taken the stairs, to have caught up with her that quickly. _Clever boy._

  
  


Unable to do anything but tremble at this point, she lets him come to her, dread filling her heart.

  
  


He approaches her tentatively, the way one would approach a spooked deer, head ducked to see her better. He stops before her, eyes running all over her body, eyebrows furrowed. She resists the sudden petulant urge to spread her arms out, let him complete a thorough scan if that’s what he’s so keen on doing.

  
  


When his gaze finally stops roving, he takes a marginal step back, his eyes wide.

  
  


“Anne- Jesus, what’s happened?” _To you. He means what’s happened to you._

  
  


She’s suddenly consumed with an abrupt overwhelming rage, the urge to kick and scream and break and _hurt,_ stronger than ever before. _Hurt,_ the way she’s been hurt. _Hurt,_ the way she’s _still hurting._

  
  


Unable to form a coherent response through the heat in her cheeks, she grits out, “Gilbert, I swear…,” but trails off, the throb in her right temple becoming unbearable as all of the muscles in her neck tense.

  
  


Her mind races. _Why is he here? This isn’t right, he isn’t supposed to be here. Why would he- what kind of idiot- ohhh she could just-_

  
  


Her phone pings.

  
  


Rummaging through her bag hastily and glancing down at the device exasperatedly, she catches sight of the message splayed across the screen and stills. 

  
  


A daily reminder: _think skillful thoughts._

She lets out a sob.

  
  



	2. because admitting isn't fixing, so then what is it worth?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lovebirds deal with the aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even have an excuse. Does laziness count? I'm just gonna claim writer's block, and throw this chapter at you to divert from the fact that I haven't posted in almost a month loll. Enjoy, tho!

Anne walks stiffly, her gaze lowered to the ground, her arms crossed protectively over her chest. Even in the dim moonlight, it was hard not to notice the tall shadow that seemed to engulf her own, nor could she effectively ignore the relentless sound of his feet scuffing the pavement with seemingly every step. 

  
  


She unconsciously balls her fists in her pockets at the way his footfalls echo her’s; they used to walk in sync.

  
  


When she looks back on them now, those early years seem to all blur together, a vague segment in the entirety of the ebb and flow that is her life. Familiar conversations in similar circumstances, each with incalculable influence.

  
  
  


“Sometimes I wonder,” Gilbert had mused once, as they laid beside each other, sweaty and grass-stained, staring up at the constellations above them, “if you were meant for the stars.” 

  
  


Anne had frowned, propped herself up on bruised elbows, peered down at him with auburn eyebrows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

  
  


He’d shrugged, turning sideways to face her with a sheepish smile, cheek propped up on his right palm. “I dunno, just… you’re boundless. Not enough space for you down here, eh?”

  
  


She’d plopped back down, had pressed her palms into the damp ground, had let her fingers fist at the dewy grass beneath them. 

  
  


“What does _that_ mean?” she’d asked, her voice coming thicker than she’d intended.

  
  


“Nothing, just...nevermind. Doesn’t matter, I guess.” He’d gotten distracted then, tracing the array of freckles just below her collarbone. She’d stared up into the darkness, trying in vain to get lost in the heat of his fingertips.

  
  
  
  


If I belong with the stars, Anne had thought. That night, alone in her room, after having thrown up for the first time in six years, she’d thought: If I belong with the stars, beyond the ache in my bones and the pain in my chest and the scars on my hips, if I belong out _there_ \-- what _exactly_ am I doing _here?_

  
  
  


He couldn’t have known. They were kids. He couldn’t have known.

  
  
  


Now, as he hastily quickens his pace to match her swift strides, Anne thinks once again of the sky; of the moon and the earth. She thinks of unfailing loyalty, unconditional devotion. To orbit unfalteringly around a singular planet for all eternity. She thinks of what would happen if that planet were to disappear.

  
  


She’s brought back to reality when Gilbert abruptly stretches an arm out in front of her, preventing her from stepping nonchalantly out onto the street, as an incoming car lets out a shrill sound of protest at the near miss. Eyebrows raised almost comically high, he turns to her, expectant, and she fumbles, not knowing just how to explain that this is her normal now. Shrugs her shoulders pathetically instead.

  
  


After her brief foray into melodrama back at the office building, he’d tugged her outside by the crook of her elbow, his free hand at the small of her back, gently pressing to guide her along. 

  
  


He’d graciously looked away while she shamefully wiped at the remains of her tears, flinching at the coarseness of dry skin against her tender eyelids. She’d pinched his elbow lightly after, to show her gratitude. Then let out a snort when he’d retaliated with a soft tug at her hair. _After all these years,_ she’d thought.

  
  


He’d insisted on walking her back to her apartment, after she’d _slobbered_ all over him, and it was such a Gilbert thing to do that she’d relented.

  
  


He’s the first to break the disconcerting silence that settles between them, and she’s so relieved she has to stifle the urge to let out a rather hysterical laugh.

  
  


“So… how have you been?” He waggles his eyebrows at her suggestively, and she slaps his arm lightly to show him she’s not in the mood.

  
  


“Interested, are you?” She’s pointedly looking straight ahead now.

  
  


“ _Yes._ I'm curious.”

  
  


“Careful, that kills cats.”

  
  


_“Anne.”_ His tone is reproachful, as are his eyes, and she scolds herself silently for feeling guilty.

  
  


“Fine. I’ve been fine.”

  
  


Gilbert’s silence speaks volumes.

  
  


“I’ll be fine,” she amends, taking his hand to lead him around a corner as they reach the end of the block.

  
  


Predictably, he doesn’t let up. “And have you been practicing? You know, with a dysregulated nervous system--”

  
  


She groans. “Jesus, he’s been here all of five minutes and he already starts in with the psychobabble…”

  
  


“Fine, let’s not waste time then. How ‘bout we jump straight to--”

  
  
  


“ _No.”_ She let’s go of his hand and throws him a sharp glare, quickly looking away and down at the ground to avoid his inquisitive gaze. “No, you do not get to come here, after all this time-- with no word of warning, mind you-- and lecture _me_ about avoidance.”

  
  


“I didn’t attend that meeting for _you_ ,” he says, his voice a low breath.

  
  


“No shit.”

  
  


“No, listen,” he reaches for her arm, but she shrugs out of his grasp, “I didn’t attend that meeting for you, because I didn’t know you’d be there, just like I hadn’t known you’d be anywhere since--” he looks away uncomfortably, “I won’t apologize for it. I’m glad I did it--”

  
  


“Gil…”

  
  


“What? Is that so hard to believe?”

  
  


_Yes,_ she wants to say. _Shit,_ she mutters instead, having frozen mid stride, her widening eyes glued to the floor. She flails for a second, waves her hand dismissively at his hovering, her heart stuttering painfully in her chest.

  
  


With slow, deliberate movements, Anne cautiously removes her foot from where she’d thoughtlessly placed it mere seconds ago, a fraction away from a rather large crack in the pavement below them. 

  
  


Her vision swims and she shuts her eyes tightly, knuckles white from the grip with which she is fisting the ends of her cardigan. She takes a breath and snaps her band continuously on the exhale, but her throat closes up when she attempts to take another, and her stomach plummets again.

  
  


Gilbert’s in front of her, frantically coaching her through a valiant attempt at diaphragmatic breathing, but his voice is garbled, his face distorted.

Her eyes dart around wildly, searching and desperate, and she stifles a miserable whine as yet another breath catches in her throat. _Show him you can do this. Show him you don’t need him._

  
  
  


Anne scrambles for something to focus on, any distractor at all. She finds purchase when he runs a frantic hand through his hair, her eyes locking in on the exposed inside of his wrist. She grabs at his forearm with both hands, tugging it towards her hastily, her eyes already greedily tracing the dark delicate strokes that mar the soft skin there.

  
  


‘Timshel’ in small hebrew letters. She remembers getting it with him on his eighteenth birthday, holding his hand and gritting her teeth as his grip grew progressively tighter. He’d been in the midst of his Steinbeck phase, and she vaguely recalls allowing him to read her a single passage on one particularly hot summer evening.

  
  


“Anne,” he’d probed once he’d finished, looking down at where she’d sat reclined between his outstretched legs, his knees cushioning hers. “Wake up.”

  
  


“I _am_ awake, idiot,” she’d huffed, tilting her head up a little in order to meet his eyes, the tip of her nose brushing his lightly, “I heard you. ‘For if _thou mayest_ \- it is also true that _thou mayest not_.’”

  
  


“Exactly,” he’d nodded, satisfied, “ _Timshel_ , Anne-girl. _You may._ There’s a choice there. We’re self made. It’s a _choice.”_ He’d sighed and reclined further into his hands then, taking her head down with him. “I’m getting that inscribed one day.”

  
  


Now as she struggles to steady her breathing and slow her heart, she whispers it to herself in her mind, over and over. _Timshel. Timshel. Timshel._

  
  


Gradually, her stomach dislodges itself from her throat and the muscles in her stiffened neck relax.

  
  


She keeps her gaze on the dark lettering scrawled along his forearm, giving herself a few moments before the inevitable interrogation. 

  
  


Soon enough, she hears the predictable drawn out sigh, and looks up warily to see him raise a hand up to his forehead, pushing back a mass of ridiculously unkempt curls, a lone bead of sweat making its gradual way down his neck and into the hidden depths under the collar of his sweater.

  
  


He meets her eyes and she swallows back the urge to physically recoil. She’d been expecting disappointment, maybe even fear. Had dreaded, above all, apathy, though she’d deny it. Instead she’s met with such physical anger, that she falters with an open mouth, lips forming around words that won’t come.

  
  


All the better. He’ll do the talking. 

  
  


“ _That_ was _fine?"_ he demands, his voice throaty and raw, nostrils flaring.

" _That_ was _handling it?_ Jesus, Anne-” he turns back towards the crack in the concrete bewilderedly, then at her, his hands behind his head. She turns away from his apparent outrage, grabs onto the sleeve of his sweater as he takes in a great gulp of air, clearly intent on soldiering on.

  
  


“We’re here,” she declares, turning suddenly to lead him towards the entrance to her apartment building, pulling her keys out as they approach. He’s coming in; she knows better than to raise objections.

  
  


As they make their quiet ascent up the stairs, Anne struggling to keep pace as Gilbert deliberately takes them two at a time, she’s suddenly struck with the vivid image of her empty cabinets, and similarly hollow refrigerator. The couch she’d crammed into the bedroom, one distinctly lacking a _bed._

  
  


Her medicine cabinet. 

  
  


Suddenly, Anne doesn’t feel like letting Gilbert in at all.

  
  


Instead, she turns all her cognitive efforts into plotting how _exactly_ she’s going to get him out.

  
  



End file.
